


On Broken Wing

by phoenyxhawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenyxhawke/pseuds/phoenyxhawke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outside of her mother's shadow, Morrigan has come to shine over the years. Meanwhile, Leliana's light in the dark is long gone, and she spirals into darkness. When Morrigan joins the Inquisition, Leliana is wary, but it seems they have more in common than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Broken Wing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlayerProphet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayerProphet/gifts).



> Author's Note: That's a wrap. Hope it's worth the wait. I included elements of all three prompts best I could: 1) Religion 2) Leliana & Morrigan's character arcs 3) Flemeth.

Leliana first spotted Liora in the marketplace at midday. The market was not overly busy, and yet, most still did not see her. Leliana, often overlooked herself, always noticed the outsiders. She was petite, even as far as elves went, and her prominent rib cage bespoke the hollowness of her stomach. She flitted from cold-shoulder to cold-shoulder like a stray cat in search of table scraps. Most spoke hardly a word to her, but her face lit up when she spotted Sister Prudence.

She approached the good sister as if she were Andraste herself. Sister Prudence, paying for a loaf of bread, favored her with a polite nod. Leliana stood at a merchant's stall and pretended to admire a ruby necklace as she watched Liora choke out her tale between sobs.

Every week, Bann Braden, a prominent nobleman, descended upon the alienage. He would ‘procure’ any elves who caught his fancy, bring them back to his chateau, torment them, and then deposit them back into their shanty town. There, they could do nothing but await his return, haunted by his very existence. Each one served as a message to all elves that their lives were not their own. 

City elves were not permitted to carry weapons. Any who rebelled were slain immediately, if they were lucky. If they weren't, they would gain an extended stay at the Bann's chateau. Liora said that he would be back for her that very night. With no one to turn to, she entreated the sister for the Maker's protection.

Leliana could not hear the sister politely decline to help, but the terror on the elf's face made it apparent. She clung to the sister's robes while Sister Prudence tried to loosen her grip. Fearful of the dirt-caked, weeping woman, the sister fled through the Chantry gates. The Templars who guarded the Maker's House 'luckily' brandished threats before swords. On her knees the sobbing elf prostrated herself before the great marble statue of Andraste. 

“Please, please help me,” Liora cried.

Leliana remembered a time when she too sat at the Bride of the Maker's feet, bloodied and wracked with sobs, searching for salvation. Though one of the Templars seemed moved by Liora's pleas, the disapproval of his superior stopped him, and before long, the elf slunk away. 

Leliana's eyes narrowed dangerously. There was no way the Maker would approve of such actions. Was this not why the Chantry was created? How could those who claimed to serve Him, who wore His regalia, who slept under His roof, turn away those who needed them most? 

Reasoning with the Revered Mother proved impossible. The Left Hand of the Divine lurked in the shadows, and thus was not recognizable, even to higher ranking members of the clergy. The arguments presented in favor of inaction were nothing new. Bann Braden was a well-respected nobleman and an upstanding member of the Chantry. Elves were known to lie to exact revenge on their superiors. A formal request should be made to the City Guard for an investigation. There were proper ways to take care of these matters. Proper diplomatic solutions. 

Leliana preferred the silent diplomacy of her knives in the Bann's kidneys. That night, upon the steps to Liora's shack, Bann Braden twitched and gasped. She watched the fear quivering in Braden's watery blue eyes. She felt him squirm on her blade for one, two, three breaths.

“May the Maker have mercy on you,” she said.

A twist of her daggers and he collapsed. It was quicker than he deserved. Leliana sheathed her weapons and climbed the last few steps into Liora’s home.

“Liora? You do not know me, but you needn’t worry. You are safe now. I –“ Leliana stopped.

Liora lie on the floor with unseeing eyes. Her neck contorted unnaturally. Beside her laid a pathetically small knife, more useful for buttering bread than self-defense. Leliana was too late. Moments earlier, she was arguing with the Revered Mother. If she had come directly… 

Outside, the skies opened up, and rain invaded the shack through glassless windows. Leliana closed Liora's big brown eyes. She would like to say this was uncommon. A madman did this. No sane person ever could. But this was not so. She stepped outside onto the stairs beside Braden’s body, splayed out and soggy.

“Tell me why,” she turned to the sky. Raindrops splashed against her face. “Why take the best of us and leave us with this?”

The rain pounded tin roofs and cobblestones. Streams gurgled between the stones. Her leather gloves squeaked when she clenched her fists. 

“The innocent, the kind, the just – they suffer and die while the cruel and self-serving prosper. How does this fit into your plan? Do you not see us? Do you not care?”

A leaf broke from Vhenadahl, the Tree of the People, and stuck wetly to the gutter. Moments passed with no answer. Tucked away in their hovels, elven eyes watched her through the obscuring fog. 

“You gave me a sign once. Please, give me just one more. I need to know that you are there.”

The Maker did not answer.

\---

The gardens of Skyhold were meager, but the fortress itself so magnificent that it readily made up for its shortcomings. Morrigan spent most of her time amongst the herbs and flowers, as she always preferred natural surroundings to enclosed walls, even if those walls were constructed by ancient elves. 

One morning just before dawn, there came a raven, spiraling down from the sky. The bulky black bird crashed behind the pots filled with slowly growing Ghoul’s Beard. Morrigan approached it cautiously and watched as it tested out its obviously broken wing.

A memory washed over her of another time. Morrigan was six years of age when she spotted the songbird. She was gathering herbs, not far from the one room hut she shared with her mother. It was not the sound of singing that called her toward the little bird. No, it could conjure up no song. It was instead a faint rustling and subtle movement that drew her eye. She snuck up on the scraggly old bush from whence the sound emanated and pulled back the branches. Sure enough, there hid a dull brown little bird with a cream colored stomach. Morrigan correctly identified it as a nightingale.

It flapped one wing furiously and fell onto its side. Around in circles it went, swirling a pattern in the dirt. In vain, the songbird tried to right itself, but it began to tire, and its flapping grew feeble. Though it fluttered in protest, Morrigan scooped up the nightingale. She covered it with one hand and climbed to her feet. She ran to her house and shoved the door aside with her small body. Flemeth looked up from the pot she tended.

“It’s about time. You’d think you were gathering elfroot from the Blighted Plains,” Flemeth said.

“Mother, ‘tis no herb I bring,” Morrigan said.

She approached Flemeth and uncovered the bird. Eyes closed, the nightingale rested in the warmth of her palm. Flemeth stared at the animal, and then turned a questioning look on her daughter.

“’Tis injured. We must help it,” Morrigan said.

Flemeth raised an eyebrow.

“Has nothing I taught you remained in that empty head of yours? I swear, sometimes I wonder if I am only ever talking to myself. Look at it, child. Tell me what you see.”

Morrigan hung her head and examined the wounded bird. The answer was simple. Too simple, perhaps, and Morrigan second guessed herself.

“Well? Hurry up, girl. As you dawdle, entire nations could fall,” Flemeth said.

“’Tis a broken wing,” Morrigan said, cautiously. 

“See, was that so hard? Now answer me this. Can a bird still fly on broken wing?” 

Morrigan gazed down at the creature and shook her head.

“Then you must kill it,” Flemeth said.

Morrigan’s breath caught and her head shot up. Her mother wore a neutral expression. So nonchalant was she about the suggestion of murdering a helpless animal. 

“But we can help it, can we not? You are a healer, such as none before you. All you would have to do is…“

“It is beyond our help. But were it not, to what end would you have me heal its injuries? It is natural for the weak and injured to die. Would you save every crippled deer upon which the wolves feast?” Flemeth said. 

Tears formed in Morrigan’s eyes. She sniffled and tried to hold them back, but they spilled over just the same. Morrigan hated every one of them. 

“No, I can’t, please. Please do not make me. ‘Tis cruel,” Morrigan said, tears dribbling down her chin. 

“Foolish girl. Do not mistake squeamishness for kindness,” Flemeth said.

She snatched the nightingale from Morrigan. In one swift motion, she snapped its neck. It went limp in her hand. She handed the little bird back to Morrigan and bid her throw it into the wilds. Morrigan cried all night.

Morrigan felt like that little girl again, watching the raven caw and flick its feathers. Attached to its leg was a tiny rolled up parchment, but before she had seen this, Morrigan knew this to be a bird of Leliana’s unkindness. Shushing the raven quietly, Morrigan grasped behind its neck. The raven squirmed as she reached into her pack for a bit of twine.

"Do not flounce about so stubbornly," she said, gently.

With healing magic in her fingertips, Morrigan gingerly stroked the bird's feathers. But it was not until she hummed softly to it that it settled down enough for her to bind its wing. She was a bit loathe to lift it, but as she wished to return it to its master, she had no choice in the matter. So she wrapped her arms around it to hold it close. A bird that size could cause her injury if it chose to kick and bite, but the raven settled into her arms with surprising eagerness.

Morrigan ascended the stone staircase to the top of the spymaster’s tower. She followed the raucous raven calls and the drifting black feathers. All sound echoed relentlessly, even the light shuffle of the librarian, but it was peaceful and people rarely spoke. This was the sort of place she might have preferred long ago. 

A tattered and broken wing struggled to flutter in her hands. It was difficult to keep the creature still, and its strength was remarkable. As they neared its master, its natural instinct was to escape, to fly toward Leliana, even though it could not. Seeing Leliana up above, laboriously bent over a table, Morrigan was struck by the passage of time. All at once it seemed as though no time had passed and yet it felt like another lifetime. When she finally reached the spymaster, she was greeted only with the back of Leliana's head. 

"What business do you have here, Morrigan?"

“She is yours, is she not?” Morrigan said.

With an exasperated sigh, Leliana turned around. Morrigan held the raven out to her, and Leliana’s mouth fell open in surprise. 

“Princess Pinfeathers! Oh no, what happened to you?”

Leliana extended her hand and the raven clasped her talons delicately around her outstretched fingers. Suddenly soft, the spymaster gathered the injured bird to her and soothed her feathers. The bird instantly relaxed at Leliana's musical cooing. 

“Yes, she is mine,” Leliana said.

“I came upon her in the gardens. ’Tis a minor injury and should heal most quickly. I have done what I can."

Leliana knew she should thank the witch, but when she did it sounded hollow.

“You are welcome,” Morrigan said.

Leliana could not detect even a hint of sarcasm in her voice. This made her leery. The Morrigan she knew had little talent for the art of deception. But it had been a long time, and Morrigan spent a decade among the best teachers in the world – Empress Celene and the Orlesian Court. 

The spymaster turned her back and tended to her raven. Morrigan did a remarkable job. Now it was left to time to heal the Princess. Leliana rested the wounded raven on her perch. Morrigan leaned against the wooden railing and peered down the well of the tower. 

“Do you need something?” Leliana asked, curtly. 

“Do I need something?” Morrigan mused. “Yes, perhaps ‘tis, in fact, a need.”

“Well? If it is not urgent, I am certain one of my agents could help you.”

“There is something I must say, though it is most awkward to do so.”

Intrigued, Leliana tilted her head upward and studied Morrigan’s profile. Her face looked calmer, softer, somehow. Even those distinct yellow eyes appeared kinder.

“Though she lay dead, ‘twas many years before I could loose the chains Flemeth bestowed upon me. When I no longer woke to fear her lurking in the shadows, free from the fear of losing my agency, I discovered that much of what Flemeth taught me, while useful, was not aligned with who I truly am.”

Morrigan glanced over her shoulder at Leliana. The spymaster stood with her hands clasped behind her back and her expression guarded. 

“I owe this, in no small part, to the Hero of Ferelden.”

At this, Leliana sunk back into her hood. Her face darkened in the shadows. 

“Yes, and you repaid her by fleeing right before the final battle.”

Morrigan’s shoulders hunched ever so slightly. Her gaze was faraway as she stared down the years of her life. 

“There is nothing I regret more. Every day I draw breath I wish that I had remained by her side.”

There was no mistaking the quiet remorse in Morrigan’s voice, and Leliana watched her for a time. The little frown she wore. The protective rounding of her shoulders. The curl of her dark hair around her ear. 

Leliana had spoken to no one about the Warden. She hadn’t wanted to. The Inquisitor was the only one with the courage to ask, but Leliana just couldn’t do it. The wound was a decade old, but it never healed completely, and so it was easily made to bleed anew. Leliana closed her eyes, grateful, as was often the case lately, for her obscuring hood. Her words were harsh and short as she fought the lump in her throat.

“It wouldn’t have mattered. I was there. I watched her die. I could do nothing.”

“T'was nothing either of us could have done. Grey Wardens being what they are. Nonetheless, she remains, to this day, the best and only true friend I have ever known. I should have been with her at the end.”

Leliana came up beside her and likewise leaned forward against the railing. She clasped her gloved hands together and spoke to the leather.

“The truth is, I am no better. Where was I when Justinia needed me?”

Leliana shook her head and gripped the railing. 

“I should have been there. I should have known someone would try to hurt her.”

Morrigan’s mouth curled into a small smirk as she finally turned to regard her old traveling companion.

“By all means, if you are able to predict such things, regale me with how this battle against Corypheus ends. I am greatly intrigued,” Morrigan said.

Leliana snorted. Though Morrigan might be right, Leliana could not so readily forgive herself for her many failures, not when they led to the deaths of those she loved. But maybe, just maybe, she could forgive Morrigan for hers. 

“They were better than either of us could ever hope to be.”

“Indeed.”

They stood together, side by side, in silence, listening to the scratching of ravens' feet and rustling papers. 

"You were right, by the way," Morrigan said.

"Oh?"

"About the red velvet dress."

"Of course I was,” Leliana smirked.

Morrigan smiled lightly, warmly, more genuine than Leliana had ever seen her smile. She pushed off the railing and started toward the stairway. Before she took the first step down, she paused for a moment and glanced over her shoulder.

"’Tis most amusing, is it not? Were you as you are now when we traveled together, I would have enjoyed your company a great deal more."

Leliana’s smile is not so kind, a guarded smirk, an injured wing. 

"Were you as kind as you now seem to be, I would have felt the same towards you."

Morrigan descended the staircase and her voice echoed as she walked.

“’Tis a bit sickening to say such things aloud.”

Leliana shook her head and smiled.


End file.
